


horizons into battlegrounds

by sallywesterley



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (because this is everything everyone thought about after watching the tfatws trailer right), Angst, Bucky Cutting His Own Hair, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Know How Time Travel Works But Neither Does Marvel So I Think I'm Good, Just General Sadness Okay i'm very sad about everything that happens here, Kind Of AU Where Time Travel Works Slightly Different Than In The Movie, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV), Still Canon Compliant Tho (i guess), Suicidal Thoughts (briefly mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallywesterley/pseuds/sallywesterley
Summary: Bucky's world has been turned upside down far too often. Maybe cutting off his hair will help him get over it. (Hint: It doesn't.) Or maybe visiting the grave of another version of himself and talking to Steve who is now an old man who couldn't save him will help. (Hint: You guessed it. It also doesn't.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	horizons into battlegrounds

**Author's Note:**

> english is not my first language & this is just my second english fanfiction, so i apologize for everything except the amount of bucky-related pain you might be about to experience. the title is a song by woodkid (i just discovered it today & it's very good!)

The stranger in the mirror is staring at you.

You thought you’d gotten used to this, the scientists of Wakanda revoked your conditioning and everything, but some days you still can’t stand looking at yourself. You wake up in the laundry room at 3 a.m. with a gun in your hand; you wake up in a back alley with a strange feeling in your left arm, like you just strangled someone, but you’re all by yourself; you wake up at LAX, your left hand wrapped around the fake passport in your pocket. You’re not on the run anymore, you’re not a killer anymore, you’re _yourself_ again, but sometimes you feel like your brain hasn’t come to terms with that yet. Who are you? You’re James Buchanan Barnes, you’re _Bucky_ , but what else? You wake up in the bathroom at 6 a.m. with a knife in your hand, and you don’t know whether you intended to cut your hair or your wrists.

Your world has been turned upside down far too often, and you’re tired. _God_ , you’re so _tired_. You may _look_ young, but you’re certainly feeling old. Sometimes you have to remind yourself that you’re older than a century now, which, even after everything that happened, after all the magic and alien invasions, seems to be the strangest thing to you. The magic and the aliens are gone – or at least they do exist far away from your reach –, but you’re still here. You died so many times; you fell off a train, you were frozen and wiped and turned to dust, but you’re still here. You wake up on the living room floor at 11 a.m., the sun shining through the windows, putting a golden shimmer on your furniture (something is truly _yours_ now, also a concept you still can’t quite get your head around), and you realize that it’s not over yet.

The stranger in the mirror is staring at you. You’re staring back. You’re not afraid of him anymore.

Sometimes you hear someone on the street say _seventeen_ or _rusted_ , and your brain echoes _семнадцать_ or _ржавый_ , but that’s not who you are anymore. Those words exist in an empty space now, they cannot hurt anyone anymore, and that’s all that counts. You wake up in terror at 1 a.m. because you dreamed about Zemo or Karpov or literally _anyone_ saying these words, about not being able to do anything except watching yourself become the monster again. You desperately feel the need to talk to Dr. Banner, ask him about how _he_ came to terms with the monster inside, how he _embraced_ that monster, but you don’t know how to reach out to him. You’ve startled him once, you don’t want to do that again. But that’s only half the truth. You’re afraid. You’re afraid that his entire secret is _I cannot die, so i had to make up with the other guy._ Because _you_ certainly _can_ die. It’s just for a lack of trying.

You wake up at 8 p.m. and mutter the words to yourself while the sun sets, just to convince yourself that the conditioning is still gone.

The stranger in the mirror is staring at you. You don’t want to look like him anymore.

The hair is getting in your way, it’s itching on your forehead and on your neck, and you realize that is has to go. You cannot carry on like this, looking in the mirror and seeing the Winter Soldier every day, seeing the man who has murdered so many people on behalf of your enemies. You once told Tony Stark that you remembered all of them, and you truly do. You _still_ do. The scientists of Wakanda set you free from Hydra’s programming, but they didn’t erase your memories, because that would have meant _all_ the memories, and you wouldn’t have wanted that. Maybe it’s because you didn’t want to step out of cryo with no memory _whatsoever_ , maybe you thought you deserved this suffering after everything you’d done. Probably the latter.

You take the scissors and start cutting your hair off, strand by strand, the words echoing through your head louder than ever, but they do not cause any reaction except your heart racing and your breath shortening. It feels like they’re trying to pull a trigger that does not exist anymore, so they’re just hitting you in the stomach, making you gasp for air. Your hands are shaking, you’re sweating, but you keep cutting. Between the former trigger words angrily bouncing up and down in your head, the only thing you can think about is how much Hydra would have _not_ wanted you to do this. _How dare you to_ want _anything, how dare you to make a decision on your own just because you may_ like _the result?_ You’re not their property anymore. But you can almost feel Zola’s presence, you can feel Karpov judging you behind your back, you can feel Alexander Pierce hitting you in the face once more.

“This is not me anymore”, you mutter under your breath while the sink is filling with strands of brown hair, “Shut _up_ , this is not me, this is not me, this is _not_ \---“

You just now realize that you’ve been speaking Russian.

The scissors drop to the floor, the clanking noise echoing through the bathroom. Then the room falls silent. The only thing you can hear is yourself breathing heavily and some distant traffic noises on the street. You’re shaking. This has been a terrible idea. You’re tumbling to the ground, pressing your forehead against the cold tiles while trying to catch your breath. You’re exhausted, you’re _tired_ , you don’t want to live through another day full of this. But how many times did you get up even if you thought you didn’t have any strength left. How many times did they _make_ you get up even if you didn’t _have_ any strength left. You’re not their property anymore. You don’t need to get up. Hell, you’d even do them a _favor_ by still doing the thing they trained you to do. But you know that you’ll always get up again, you’ll always make it through another bad day, until your body finally gives up (you can’t tell when this will happen, or _if_ ), and you hate yourself for still doing that. But you can’t help it.

You get up again and stare at the stranger in the mirror. You expected to see _Bucky_ , you expected to see the person you’d been in the 1940s, but all you can see is the Winter Soldier with a really bad haircut. This has been a _terrible_ idea.  
_Did you really think cutting off your hair would change anything? I wouldn’t have thought you’re_ that _stupid, but here we are.  
_Karpov’s voice is echoing in your head. You think about smashing the mirror with your left hand, but you don’t want to give them that kind of satisfaction. They have destroyed enough.

You reach for the razor.

*

It’s early in the morning and the whole cemetery is quiet. Birds chirping, sun rising, a mild autumn wind blowing through the leaves, and you’re still thinking _рассвет_.

It’s a simple grave, name and dates engraved into a stone, like any other grave; it’s _weird_. It’s weird to read your own name on a gravestone, with dates that are already in the past, on a grave decorated with flowers and candles. The dates say that you died, but you’re still here. Your brain is itching once again, and you feel like you’re touching the edges of a life you could have had.

“Hi.”

You turn around to find Steve Rogers standing next to you. It’s still odd to see him as an old man, but no, it’s not just _odd_ , it’s more; you’re happy for him, you’re happy that he got to live his best life, but also, your heart is aching, because you didn’t get to live yours. It’s a selfish thought and you regret it immediately.

“You’re looking good”, Steve says, a smile on his face.

You laugh hoarsely.  
“I look like shit.”

Steve tilts his head.  
“Yeah … maybe a little bit.”

You laugh again, and it’s sincere this time. Seems like some things haven’t changed after all. Steve’s gaze trails off to the grave, and you suddenly feel the need to justify why you’re here.

“I just … didn’t know how to celebrate my own anniversary of death, I guess”, you say.

“I’m sorry, Buck”, Steve says softly, gently placing a hand on your shoulder.

You consider asking what he’s sorry for, but you know. You _know_. He’s saying, ‘Sorry that you’re still here’. He’s saying, ‘Sorry that you didn’t get to live your best life’. He’s saying, ‘Sorry that your own timeline remained untouched when I travelled back to the 1940s and saved you from becoming the Winter Soldier. Sorry that you still had to go through all of this.’

“It’s just … odd”, you say, because you feel the desperate need to fill the silence with _something_.

“Do you like the flowers?”, Steve asks. He seems to be feeling the same way.

“Yeah, they’re … they’re nice.”

You can feel your voice breaking. You vision is getting blurry; you start shaking and gasping for air. But you need to pull yourself together. This is not the right time or place to cry, especially not in front of Steve, who did everything he could to save you; he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You were trained to get up after a fall, again and again, you were trained to suppress any emotion that could jeopardize a mission, but out of all possible situations, this ability is failing _now_. You cover your mouth with you right hand to keep yourself from bursting into tears, but it doesn’t work; it feels like you’re falling apart, in front of your own grave and in front of Steve, who doesn’t deserve to see this.

“I’m sorry, I’m ---“

You’re sobbing, your words are barely recognizable, you just want to _disappear_ right now and right here, and even through the tears you notice the concerned look on Steve’s face, or you just _know_ it’s there, because it’s _Steve_ after all, and you’ve known him for most of your life – _hell_ , you’ve known him so well he even broke through Hydra’s programming. Steve doesn’t deserve _any_ of this.

You turn away, but he says, “It’s okay, Buck”, and pulls you into a tight hug. “It’s okay. _I_ am sorry”, he says, gently running his hand over you freshly cut hair and your back.  
And it _hurts_ , it hurts so much. You don’t even try to stop the tears anymore, you’re just leaning your head against Steve’s shoulder. He’s holding you, and you’re holding onto him like this could change anything, but it just feels so different, so _strange_ , Steve is old now, and you miss his younger self, you miss him _so much_.

“You don’t have to be sorry”, you whisper. “You … you did everything you could.”

You’re not sure if he can hear you, everything around you is just so _blurry_ , but you want him to know that none of this is his fault. None of this was _ever_ his fault.

After a while, you pull yourself out of his embrace, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. Steve lets you go, but he’s still resting his hand on your shoulder. It’s comforting, in a way. You suppress the urge to apologize again; you’re looking at the grave instead.

“Was I … Did he … live his best life?”

Steve smiles and nods.  
“Oh yes. He definitely did. Do you want to hear about it?”

You’re gritting your teeth. Do you want to hear about another version of yourself, the version of yourself who was saved before the worst things could happen, the version of yourself who never became the Winter Soldier, living his best life?

“No. I think … I think I don’t.”

“Fair enough.”

“At least … at least not now, you know. It’s just … I’m happy for you, and I’m happy for … I’m happy for him. It’s just …”

_I’m still here. I’m still here and I’m struggling and I sometimes think about just putting a bullet in my head._

“No, it’s okay.”

“ _God_ , I miss you”, you say before you can stop yourself.

“No need to miss me”, he says with a forced smile on his face, gently patting your back. “I’m still here.”

You try to smile too, but you’re sure that your smile looks as terrible as your haircut.  
“We still haven’t reached the end of the line, huh?”

“No, we haven’t.”  
He looks at you like he’s trying to read your thoughts, but in a non-invasive way, like he just wants to know what could help you to ease the pain.  
“I can come over if you like. Cook you some dinner, watch some 40s movies. Whatever you feel like.”

You can feel your vision going blurry once again, but you can hold the tears back this time. This is so sweet, it _hurts_.  
“Thanks, but … I’m good. I’m good.”

Maybe if you say it over and over again, it will become true. But maybe there _is_ a glimpse of truth in it. Spending time with Steve would only remind you of the life you never lived with him, and spending time with you would just remind Steve of the fact that he was able to rescue another Bucky from another timeline, but not you.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah”, you nod. “You had your time with him … with me. I have to handle this on my own, you know. I … I’m okay.”

You manage to form a smile that seems to be at least _somehow_ convincing, because Steve smiles back.

“Good. And if you’re not, just give me call.”

“I will.”

_I won’t._

It ends like this, Steve walking away after one last hug, leaving you alone in front of the grave of the man you could have been. It will always end like this, you being all by yourself again, juggling all the nightmares, flashbacks and bad days alone. It’s probably what you deserve, and you find comfort in the thought that maybe one day, you’ll get redemption. Maybe one day good things will happen to you, and you’ll live to see that day, because you’ll always get up again, and again and again, like you were trained to.

It always ends like this, alone and tired and with past memories cutting through your brain like pieces of broken glass.

But at least this time, you think to yourself, it doesn’t end in a fight.


End file.
